sutras

Someone is barricading themselves in a house down the street. Police have closed off Montgomery, it’s all very discreet. There’s talk of drugs and guns found on campus, radio chatter and hot helicopters. Parents rake leaves as they fret about the threat, this quaintly obvious police-approved orange-coned lockdown threat. They don’t worry about men with guns who have not slept in weeks, creeping their streets or cutting their meat. They don’t worry about junkies in the park who trample trough yards on a hot summer night and beat off in tool sheds to Rapper’s Delight. They don’t worry about bachelor pod houses brimming with rednecks who park on the lawn and porch-pirate their FedEx. They don’t worry about wildfires or floods, orphaned beaches strewn with dead parody, tax-evading monopolies, pesticides on their broccoli, blood-sucking ticks ordering coelacanth chowder. The good parents of Fredericton will worry about bad guys when the police tell them to worry and not a single moment sooner.